All In A Day's Work
by Old English Game
Summary: Snapshots of lives of the people at Stalag 13, be they Hogan's hero, backrow prisoner, or any other fellow unlucky enough to get pulled into this mess. Rated T to be on the safe side
1. Piano Man

Author's Note!:

I'm hoping to make this a book of short stories, so the chapters/stories will be independent and not in any particular order. So I probably won't ever mark it complete since I think of lots of little tidbits. Hopefully now I'll actually put to use all the unfinished chunks of dialogue bouncing around in my head. I'm rating them K+ just for the swearing but it's pretty mild.

Enjoy!

-Me

P.S. I forgot to mention this in my last two stories (but since everyone knows anyways I don't think anybody cares) but I don't own any of these characters (except Loewe but you can borrow him). Or the plot. Or anything.

P.P.S Please let me know if the formatting on any of these is weird.

End Author's Note!

Wilson had never spent much time in the recreation hall, since he usually had one patient or other and rather enjoyed sitting idle in the infirmary, anyways. He knew several different types of Solitaire and had a few medical books that, even though he'd been a prisoner less than a year, were already dog-eared and faded.

But today, he was in the recreation hall. His deck of cards had been knocked into the ash bucket and ash was simply impossible to clean off of anything. While on his search for a new deck, multiple people had suggested that he come to the rec hall for once and properly socialize. Because telling a man to stick the thermometer under his tongue didn't count.

Now that he was in here, he was regretting it. Tommy Dorsey (whom he had never been very fond of) was playing on the scratchy record player, a very animated game of pool was going on in the back of the room, and several games of cards were being played, all of this under the overlying cigarette smoke and suffocating chatter.

He looked around and picked out the only available seat, which was the wooden stool in front of the piano. The piano itself was pulled away from the wall, and he recognized Loewe's boots with their mismatched laces sticking out from behind.

"Are you trying to tune that?"

"Huh?" Loewe shifted to look up, and then nodded, "Yeah. Could you play f5 for me? If you don't mind."

"Huh?" Wilson stared at the keyboard. He'd played the recorder for a year and a half in high school. That was further away than he cared to admit.

"Umm. Okay, so you see the groups of black keys, right?"

"I'm not blind."

"The 'f's are the white keys before each set of three black ones."

Right. "Which one's f5?"

"The fifth f up."

"Up?"

A sigh, "To the right."

Wilson carefully selected the key and poked down on it. The note was sharp and sour.

"Wow! That was bad. All right, thanks." There were some grunts and the twangy sound of strings being fiddled with.

"You trying to tune this thing?" Wilson frowned at the piano. It'd been off-tune before he'd been captured. He'd heard stories of people who'd tried to tune it. Joseph Mallard from 6 had been Wilson's first patient after he'd been trying to tune it and some part fell and gouged a giant hole in his arm.

"Yuh-huh. Hit that note again?"

Wilson hit it again. He wasn't sure how it sounded different, but apparently it was good because Loewe flipped out the center panel from behind and grinned at Wilson through the piano, "That's great! Thanks," And he disappeared again, "Could you hit the note just below that?"

"To the left?"

"Yeah."

Wilson played the note.

"Oh, that one's not so bad. Just a little bit of -,"

Then there was a horrible _snap, _and Loewe yelled, and then various discordant notes disturbed the noisy atmosphere, "Aw, shit!" He scrambled out of the tight spot, one hand pressed to his face, the other groping for a handhold.

Wilson jumped up, alarmed, "What happened?!" He knelt down by Loewe and reached for his hand, pulling back when Loewe shook his head and pressed himself back against the wall.

"Dammit," He sucked in a breath, "Stupid string snapped. Shit, that hurts," He ducked his head. Blood was oozing through his fingers.

Wilson stepped around the piano and pulled him out from the small space, "Sit down," He stuck him on the piano stool, vaguely aware that they had attracted the attention of nearly everyone in the barracks, "You gotta move your hand. Let me see."

"Even if I'm holding my eyeball in?" Loewe opened his other eye for a moment to look mournfully up at Wilson.

"Stop it, it's not that bad," Wilson gently reached for his hand and this time Lowe let him pull it away, "Ouch."

"No shit."

"Language," Wilson muttered as he reached down for his medical bag - which wasn't there, "Aww -," He stopped himself. Bitter and asocial he may be, but never a hypocrite. "Come on. I'm taking you to the infirmary, I need to stitch that up," He frowned at the giant gash lashing from above Loewe's eye down across his cheek, almost across his nose.

"Uh-huh," Loewe stood up and let himself be pulled out of the infirmary.

In the infirmary, Corporal Rosen, who made up the entirety of the official Stalag 13 medical team, leapt up from his half-doze when the two entered, "_Was is los?"_ He exclaimed, staring incredulously.

"Piano string," Wilson explained. He and Rosen had an odd sort of relationship, wherein they tolerated each other for sake of necessity and otherwise avoided each other like the plague.

Rosen paused, "Piano string?" He repeated, "Like…" He mimed playing a piano, "_Klavier?"_

Wilson glanced at Loewe, "Is that right?" A nod, "Yeah."

Rosen sighed, "I get water," He grabbed a bucket and strode from the barracks, muttering something Wilson didn't think would be intelligible even if he understood German.

"Alright," Wilson deposited Loewe on the cot nearest the small workstation, and then quickly pulled various items from the cupboards, "Soon as Rosen's back with the water, clean you off and stitch you up."

"I dunno it's that bad," Loewe brought a hand up to his injury.

"Don't touch it!" Wilson exclaimed, grabbing his wrist, "It's still bleeding."

"Alright, _mom." _Loewe frowned.

Wilson huffed and rolled his eyes. As soon as Rosen was back with the water, he gingerly cleaned the blood off of his face, "You're a terrible patient," He muttered, "Stop! Stop squinting!"

Loewe opened his mouth like he was about to protest, but at a stern look shut it again and remained stoically silent as Wilson stitched it up and put a patch of gauze on the worst part.

"It's pretty deep, be careful not to split it open," He warned, "How'd you manage to get it that bad?"

"You were _there._" Loewe frowned, "Ow."

"Yeah, don't be squinting. Or smiling. Or laughing or anything, really," Wilson frowned.

"Oh boy." He sighed

"Oh boy is right. It's probably going to scar, too."

Loewe looked up, "Would you back me up if I told my girlfriend it was a scar from a harrowing and dangerous battle?"

"I would. I'm not sure everyone in the rec hall will," Wilson sat down in one of the few chairs in the room. Rosen was already across the room, half dozing with his feet propped up on the stove. "You got a girlfriend?"

Loewe shrugged, "No. But I hope I'll get one, after the war. I think I'll do okay, I mean, I'm nice enough. Unless she finds out that I was dumb enough to try to tune a piano with a flathead, a wrench and a handful of bent nails."

"Hmm."

"What about you?" Loewe reached up and scratched the bandage, "You got a girl?"

"Don't touch that!" Wilson exclaimed, " - yes, my wife. Amelia," He dug into his wallet - he didn't talk to people, but he showed everyone her picture, "That's her, on the left."

"She's pretty," Loewe smiled, "Any kids?"

Wilson shook his head and tucked the picture back in his wallet, "She can't."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head, "Naw."

Then he changed the subject, "You got a deck of cards?"

"I think so -," Loewe reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a pocket-sized book, a dollar bill, an old chicken bone, and - a deck of cards, "Yeah, here. What happened to yours?"

"Dropped it in the ash bucket," Wilson frowned, "You know any other games besides Gin? That got old, fast."

"Sure," He shuffled the deck, "I've got a couple'a games I learned from this guy in transit camp. His name was Mack. Well, Mackenzie, actually, Pete Mackenzie, but everyone called him Mack. Even the guards. He was one of those guys, you know."

"I know."

"Yeah. But anyways, he taught anyone who came through a couple of card games, he figured Gin and Solitaire and Go Fish got boring real fast. Only thing was, he didn't know any of the actual names for the games," He was laying the cards out, trying to remember how Mack had done it on the overturned water barrel in the transit barracks. "I think he called this one Popcorn. Don't remember why. But anyways, it's like this..."


	2. Monkey Business: Behind the Scenes

"Oh, Daddy, what did you do in the war?" Porter squawked in a mock falsetto, before dropping to an exaggerated bass, "Well, kiddo, I babysat a blasted baboon!" His voice rose up again in frustration.

"Actually, I think it's a chimp," Hugh said matter-of-factly, tentatively extending the end of his pencil towards Freddy.

Porter scowled, "I don't care what it is. Why'd we get stuck with it?"

"Him," Walters corrected, "And I don't think he bites," He reached out and scratched the top of Freddy's head, "I mean, someone got him into uniform."

"I guess 'cuz' we're the closest, and they needed to hide it in a hurry," Glasses, so named for his bug-eyed wire-rimmed glasses, was keeping a safe distance up on his bunk, "Do we got to feed it? Or… give it a bath or something?"

Hugh shrugged, "Dunno. They didn't say how long we were gonna be stuck with it. But apparently they're entertaining a pretty lady underground agent and don't want a chimp hanging around."

"That is a bit of a turn-off," Walters agreed.

Porter groaned, "What happens when it needs to take care of nature? I don't think it knows how to use the latrines!"

"I am not -," Glasses couldn't even bring himself to say it, "Get someone with kids to do it. They know how."

Everyone looked at Walters.

"Hey!" He shook his head vehemently, "Chimps and babies are very different! Besides, I only ever changed Ellie once."

Hugh shook his head, "It's not even wearing a diaper. It must have something figured out."

"So it's just gonna go wherever it feels like it?" Glasses squawked and pulled his legs up onto his bunk.

"Okay, okay!" Porter held up his hands, "We'll worry about the ape's bathroom rituals in a bit. We'll just go ask Newkirk or whoever's adopted him how to figure that. How are we supposed to hide it from the barracks guard?"

The four exchanged glances, "I guess we just hide him in the corner or something," Walters shrugged, "Köhler doesn't usually spend much time in here."

"I wonder why," Glasses said dryly.

Porter rolled his eyes, "Alright. Does anybody care to throw away the last of their dignity and go ask Newkirk how to handle the monkey's call of nature?"

Silence.

He sighed, "Alright, grab the sticks."

Dutifully, Glasses reached into the can of cigarette butts nailed to his bunk and pulled out the bundle of sticks, whittled down so they all looked the same, and held them out.

"Wrap 'em up, so you can't feel the short one and cheat," Hugh said.

Glasses rolled his eyes and tugged off his hat, and wrapped up the sticks, "There you go. All fair now."

"It is one of the virtues we're fighting to protect," Walters pointed out.

"By babysitting monkeys," Porter glared at Freddy again. The chimp spread his lips out in a garish smile, "Alright, everyone take a stick."

They each took a stick. Hugh was the unlucky one, and morosely set off down the tunnel towards Barracks 2.

He found the majority of them gathered in the radio room, surrounding a young blonde.

They looked up as he came in, and he suddenly felt his cheeks turn red under everyone's scrutiny.

"Help you, corporal?" Hogan asked.

"Uh Yeah," Hugh rushed out, "I need to speak to someone about the, uh…" Was he supposed to say it in front of the underground lady? "Freddy."

Newkirk stepped forward, "Is he alright?" He asked curiously.

"Unless Porter's snapped his neck by now," The underground lady's eyes widened and he stammered, "I mean -! Uh - we just have a few questions. Well, really only one, but, umm… It's kind of an awkward question."

Looking just a little bit concerned, Newkirk followed Hugh into the tunnel and Hugh started, "Well, about the monkey -,"

"Chimp."

"Sure. Umm, we were curious, about what he does when he, uh - needs to," Hugh paused, "Take care of business," Boy, Porter hadn't been kidding when he said he was throwing away his dignity.

Newkirk snorted, and then buried his laughter in his elbow. After a moment he said, "He's trained."

"We gathered that. Trained for _what? _Surely not the head?"

"Yeah."

"You're joking!" Hugh's voice cracked - he hated it when that happened, "You've only had it a few days!"

Newkirk shrugged, "There's not much to do in a prison camp," He snorted again, "Just don't let any of the guards see 'im."

"No kidding," Hugh sighed as Newkirk gave him a pat on the shoulder, a grinning tip of the hat, and spun on his heel and left, "No one's even gonna believe me," He started walking back to Barracks 3, "Boy, Walters' gonna laugh so hard Köhler'll come running, and then we're all gonna get thrown in the cooler for housing a -," He bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from swearing. His mother would probably hear it and come all the way from Nevada to parachute into Germany just to wash his mouth out with soap and give his ear a good twist.

He came back up the tunnel in Barracks 3 and announced, "He's toilet trained."

"You're joking!" Was the emphatic burst, echoed by nearly everyone in the barracks.

He just nodded miserably, "We just gotta be careful he's not seen."

"I don't believe it," Porter's voice quavered, "First we're babysitting an ape, and now we've got to walk it to the bathroom," He sank down at the barracks table.

"I am _not _doing it." Hugh flopped down on his bunk, "I already did my part in the monkey thing. Someone else can ruin their reputation."

"I vote Bennett," Someone said, "He doesn't have any reputation, anyways. At least, not a good one."

Bennett protested loudly, but since Freddy didn't seem to need to go at the moment, the topic turned away from the problem, and he was ignored.

Unfortunately, eventually Freddy digested Hugh's pencil (which he'd gotten a hold of soon after Hugh left), and waddled over to the door before turning his head and squawking to the room.

Glasses, who had been buried in a book, jumped about ten feet, "Bennett!" He yelled, "It needs to go."

"What?!" Bennett shook his head vehemently, "No one ever gave me a choice! I never consented!"

Everyone shrugged, "Too bad," Several chorused.

"We - we can't use the sticks?"

"Nope."

And so Bennett set off with Freddy in tow, mumbling colorful words under his breath.

Dinnertime came, and with it another problem. The men of barracks 3 did not possess such a wonderful cook as 2 did, and somehow none of them seemed to mind the mess hall food. But they couldn't bring a chimp to the mess hall.

"What're we s'posed to feed him?"

Porter scowled, "It's a chimp. It can't be that picky. Grab him an extra potato or two."

"What if it's still hungry?" Glasses asked.

"The less it eats, the less it needs to _go." _Porter said.

"Two potatoes. Excellent." They agreed.

The mess hall was a messy affair, and everybody was jealous of the barracks that had a good enough chef to feed them outside the Canteen - which was really just Hogan's bunch, because they got supply drops from London, although occasionally a barracks saved enough potatoes and vegetables and whatnot for their designated chef to really cook up a feast. A big grand feast of watery potato soup, which was still better than mess hall food.

Glasses, Hugh, Walters, and Porter entered as a bunch, the four of them being friends (for some accursed reason, Porter would say), and immediately Porter broke off to talk with some "old-people friends" as the other three would word it, although it was really just the ones who led similar bands of misfit friends and shared gossip and news from whatever they dealt with, and make their comments about Hogan's elite four, in the same fashion as a bunch of grandmothers knitting and gossiping about all the reckless, self-inflated youngsters that ruled the age.

And Glasses and Hugh and Walters began Operation Pilfer-The-Potato-For-The-Stupid-Monkey-Ape-Chimp-Baboon-Thing.

It was fairly simple, since Corporal Mittendorfer was on kitchen guard duty. And Corporal Mittendorfer was a special fellow, in that he just - didn't see things. Not in the way that Schultz saw nothing, but it seemed you could do literally anything and he would still be staring off in the same direction he'd been before, with a sort of predatory look in his eyes. Something was off with the guy.

So it was a fairly simple task, of Glasses having a coughing fit off to the side (in case Mittendorfer actually happened to be paying attention to the goings-on), while Walters and Hugh stuffed their pockets with as many potatoes as they could manage.

And then, looking much rounder and lumpier than they had before, they returned to the mess hall and had their dinner.

Their theft count was seventeen potatoes. When they got back to the barracks, Freddy was given two.

He got through them quickly, as well as Walters' coffee and anyone else's things that weren't being watched carefully.

Many began to retreat to the top bunks, taking everything possible with them, and watched the monkey warily as he explored the room. Nobody stopped him when he peeked into the can of cigarette butts, or when he inhaled a big whiff of ash, and sneezed it all over the room. There were a few snickers when he burnt himself on the stove.

"Man, we're terrible parents," Glasses lamented. He was crushed between Walters and Hugh on his bunk.

"Oh, please!" Walters said mockingly, "We've just taught it not to touch the stove or stick its face into unknown places."

"I hope you're joking," Hugh muttered, "It's a chimp. It doesn't get parented. Besides, Newkirk just said to 'watch it'. We don't _really _have to take _care _of it."

Porter grinned, "I like that, Hugh."

So they watched Freddy. They watched him burn himself on the stove twice more, and they watched him eat the kindling. And they watched him try to eat Kelly's blanket, and then they made bets on who would win the fight: the chimp or Kelly. Then they watched the fight. They watched Freddy break a broom. They watched Kelly hit Freddy with the broom - but not too hard, or Newkirk would have his head - and then they watched Freddy clean. And they wondered exactly how much Newkirk had taught the chimp.

Finally, when it was getting nighttime and they were wondering if they would have to chain it to a bunk (and what the retributions of _that_ would be), Newkirk arrived to take him back.

Porter scooped up the chimp very unceremoniously, and practically shoved it into Newkirk's hands, "_Take it, _for the love of mercy."

Newkirk, surprised, looked around at the relieved faces, "Okay then," He said, a little confused, and backed out.

Just before Porter shoved the door shut, they heard the Englishman murmur, "You bother them, huh, Freddy? I bet you did, ya little sneak. You don't bother me, you know. You're a good little fellow."

Porter shut the door and looked at the other occupants, and said empatically"They're crazy, that bunch. Stir crazy."

_Author's Note: I have a Part 2 to Chapter One in the works. I need to write the last two sentences. Seriously. I'm an idiot._

_But I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks!_

_-Me_


	3. Drinking on Duty

"Oh, so long, Hochstetter! Well, it's over."

And with that, Newkirk toppled backwards, with a giddy half-laugh, and let the dirt ceiling, the switchboard, and the various props of his ploy, spin away into oblivion. Oh, what a wonderful excuse to drain a bottle of wine...

"Uh-oh," Carter looked at the prone figure of the Englishman, framed by the spilt remains of the bottle of wine - although there wasn't much left of it, "Boy, Newkirk, you're in trouble." Make it sound good, the Colonel had said. Boy, had Newkirk taken that to heart. He carefully rerighted the table that had already been rickety enough, and picked up the pair of heels and the party horns. Then he made sure the call had been properly disconnected, and he hadn't accidentally blown their whole operation over the phone to Hochstetter. Then he knelt down and gave Newkirk a gentle nudge, "Hey, Newkirk buddy? Colonel Hogan's gonna have your head if he finds out you've been drinking on duty."

Newkirk groaned, "Carter, I'm gonna rip your ruddy..." It was reduced to mumbles as Carter clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Whatch your language!" Carter chided, "Look, you need to get off the ground, Newkirk."

"I'm on the -," Newkirk lifted his head up, frowning at his surroundings, and then his eyes widened and he exclaimed, "Andrew!" He sprung to his feet, looking from the empty bottle in his hand to his dirt and alcohol streaked uniform, "Andrew, the Colonel's gonna kill me! Ooh-," He brought a hand to his head with a wince, "Can't even keep my corp'ral's stripes. That's worse than me dad, you know? And he was a right - ooh..." He broke off again.

Carter nodded fervently, "Come on, I'll help you clean it up." He looked around, and grabbed two of the rags draped over the back of one of the chairs, generally reserved for wiping the black grease off of their faces after a mission. He handed one to Newkirk and knelt down, mopping up the wine sloshed over the floor.

"Thanks," Since most of it had soaked into the earth already, it was just a matter of cleaning up the puddle, and then Newkirk plucked a bottle of aspirin off of one of the shelves - it was a staple for the men, headaches, bumps, and bruises were all too common in their business. He downed a handful while Carter surveyed him warily.

"You're all muddy," He said when Newkirk had washed down the aspirin with the last swig of wine.

Newkirk nodded down at himself, "Well, that's not so bad, is it? We only do laundry once a week."

"Sure," Carter nodded, "But you stink like alcohol too."

Newkirk nodded again, and then winced, and reached for the aspirin again.

Carter grabbed his sleeve and tugged him in the opposite direction, "Too much aspirin's just gonna make you sick. Here, I know how to mask the smell," He pulled Newkirk into his laboratory.

Carter was very, very proud of his laboratory. Newkirk saw it as nothing more than a glorified cleaning closet, but it was Andrew Carter's laboratory. His personal space - something very few other men in camp had. The shelves were dug into the wall, because rickety shelves just didn't do for holding volatile materials. They were cluttered with mismatched bottles of everything with any sort of chemical compound, which, when Newkirk dredged his fifth grade science class from the cobwebby recesses of his memory, was pretty much everything.

He went straight for the bottles on the left side of the room, and, after careful consideration, deftly selected a bottle, and held it out to Newkirk, "Here."

"Wot's this?" Newkirk eyed the bottle skeptically, because given the nature of Carter's laboratory, the thing could very well explode.

"It's like cologne, but instead of a new smell it does more to mask the old one. I think it's like a cleaner but for the air."

"Terribly sophisticated explanation of yours," Newkirk muttered.

Carter shrugged, "Just put some on. It works pretty well. Some of this'll get the scent out of your clothes," He picked out another bottle, spilled a bit of the substance onto a rag, and held it out. It was more foamy, and when Newkirk rubbed it against the particularly large spill, it scraped - for lack of bettter word - away the stain.

"How do you find all these miracle cleaners, then?" He asked, after he was looking - and smelling - a bit better.

Carter returned the bottles to their places on the shelves - apparently there was some organization involved, somehow, and said, "I just mess around with stuff. That gunk you that took out that stain was a mixture of LeBeau's Chow Mein and potato skins, for texture."

"Oh," Newkirk frowned down at himself.

"Right," They started walking out of the laboratory, "See, the way I figure it..."

And he was off again, yammering about life and discovery and how everything pertained to other things and whatnot. Newkirk decided he was glad that it was Carter spending so much time in that stinky laboratory, because apparently it'd driven him stir-crazy. When he got a chance to put a word in edgewise, he'd tell him so.

But that chance never came. Just moments later, they heard ecstatic yelling in German, "DER KRIEG IST ZU ENDE! DER KRIEG IST ZU ENDE!"

"Oh, that's our cue," Newkirk said, as Carter's nattering finally slowed, "Come on, let's go. Hey, I bet there'll be drink! Celebratory, you know," He draped an arm around Carter's shoulders and steered him out of the barracks.

Carter sighed, "Newkirk, I don't know what we're going to do with you after the war."

_Author's Note: I know Carter didn't appear in the episode "War Takes a Holiday" (off of which this is based), but I didn't think about that until I'd already gotten halfway through writing this, so... here you go. I am working on that Pt. 2 to Chapter 1, by the way. Sometimes it worms its way into my thoughts and haunts me._

_Also I just watched "Klink's Secret Weapon" and I have to say it's one of my favorite episodes:_

_"The bunks are twenty-eight inches apart"_

_"Well how 'bout that!"_


	4. The Medic

_Author's Note: This is a sort of sequel/companion to Chapter 1, Piano Man, but can be read separately. I hope you're enjoying them all, thanks for the good reviews!_

"You know something, Corporal?" Wilson tossed the spent bandage in the nearby trashcan and continued scolding his poor patient, "You are the worst patient I've ever treated. And when I was first shot down I took care of a whole bomber crew of Germans for a whole night before we were found."

"You know what you should do," Loewe was beginning to look a little scared of Wilson's grousing, "Is you should tell me that story. Instead of berating me for… whatever it is you're mad at me for."

"Picking at your wound, for one thing," Wilson pulled a small can from his bag and swiped a bit of the gunk onto his fingers, "Then breaking three stitches."

"What was I supposed to do? I can't walk around with no facial expression for a month!" Loewe winced as Wilson smeared the cream onto the red wound streaking across his face.

"It wouldn't have been a month," Wilson muttered, "Just a few weeks."

Loewe sighed, "Fine, sorry."

Wilson just shook his head, "You're the one stuck with an ugly scar for the rest of your life."

Loewe shrugged.

"Hold still!"

He stiffened, but couldn't resist, after a few more moments, "How'd you end up taking care of a German bomber crew?"

"Oh?" Wilson recapped the little can, "Well, I was shot down not quite a year ago, right."

"Right."

"Yeah… it was over Mannheim…"

_1942_

"Wilson, you're the worst bombardier in the entire United States Air Force!" Scratch was right about to take Wilson's head off, when the Captain snapped,

"Can it, Scratch! We've got to find the others before the Krauts do, so shut your mouth."

Scratch sent Wilson a last withering glare and shoved his cap down under his eyes, following Captain Winters through the forest towards where he thought he'd seen the other parachutes go down.

Despite their general animosity towards each other, the two sergeants found themselves walking side by side as they picked their way through the underbrush, until they came upon the smoking wreck of -

"That's a Kraut plane!" Scratch squawked, and scrambled backwards.

Captain Winters was just about to follow him when Wilson hissed, "Wait! Some of 'em are hurt!"

"They're supposed to be, Sergeant," Winters grabbed his sleeve and was about to tug him along when a voice behind them shouted,

"_Halt!"_

"Now you've done it!" Scratch snapped as they stuck their hands in the air.

"Shut it," Winters muttered through gritted teeth.

There was the rustling of feet and a Luftwaffe soldier appeared in front of them, Wilson wasn't sure if it was an officer or an enlisted man, gripping a pistol so tight his knuckles were white.

"Kindly don't shoot us," Winters said, and from the uncertainty in his eyes it was apparent he didn't speak English.

"_Komm," _He said finally, and motioned for them to turn around and walk.

They came back to the wreck, and one man stood up, holding a bloodied arm close to him, and looked them up and down,

"_Amerikaners," _He said finally, and Winters nodded, "I speak -," He waved his hand, "A little English. You are now prisoners."

"We'd gathered," Scratch said. Wilson glared at him.

The German shook his head, "Look, we are -," He frowned and motioned between them, then finally sighed, giving up on trying to conjure the words, and stuck out a hand to Captain Winters, "Aumann."

"Winters," After a moment's hesitation, the Captain shook his hand firmly.

Wilson took a half a step forward and motioned to the rest of the crew, "I'm a medic," He said simply, hoping Aumann understood. He wasn't really a medic, but he'd had more training than the average flyer, and he'd studied plenty.

He did, "Oh! _Gut! _Please -," He waved a hand towards the six other men, "The aeroplane - fire."

Wilson nodded. There was only one man who looked to be only unconscious, the others were nursing tender burns, "Let me help. I need cool water."

"Water?" Aumann repeated. Wilson nodded, "_Ja. Schäfer," _He fired off fast German to the other man, who nodded, pressed the gun into Aumann's good hand, and ran off into the woods.

"Who's the worst?" Wilson looked around the small group, and Aumann looked at a loss for a translation. Nevermind, Wilson could see.

He knelt down by the delirious man, a bit younger than him (it seemed everyone was younger than him), whose whole left side was pocked with bloody blisters. The two others eyed him cautiously, but finally moved back, "Help me get his shirt off," He waved Scratch over.

Scratch held his ground, scowling.

Winters sighed, and went over to Wilson, "Let me help."

They started to peel off what was left of his shirt and coat, and his eyes fluttered open and he murmured something hoarsely.

Wilson glanced up at Aumann, who said something back, and the man gasped, starting to scramble up.

"No! Wait!" Wilson pushed him gently back to the Earth as Aumann crouched down beside them, again stringing something off in German.

The man's eyes found Aumann's, a bit uncertain, but then he nodded slowly and let Wilson and Winters take off his shirt and spread it beneath him, biting back groans with every movement.

"Good. As soon as that fellow - Schäfer - gets back with the water, we need to sponge it, sort of, onto his burns. We can't soak it or it might get infected."

Aumann listened to all of this with a confused frown, and finally sighed dejectedly and shook his head, "I do not know."

"That's okay," Wilson said firmly, "I know."

A few minutes later, Schäfer came back with a helmet full of water. Wilson set Aumann gently cleaning off the man's wounds with a cloth from one of their first aid kits, and Schäfer took two more of the men's helmets and went off again as Wilson and Winters moved on to the next man.

Most of them were conscious, and one, who introduced himself as Roth, began to help as soon as Wilson secured his seared arm against his body, and told them the names of each of the men. Besides he, Aumann, and Schäfer, the first man was Von Essen, and then Voss, Schriver, Weiß, and Rudi. Rudi was the one who hadn't been burnt, he'd been thrown from the plane before it blew, and Wilson decided to check on him last. Hopefully he would come around between now and then.

He didn't. Wilson was a bit more concerned by the time he got to treating him (by then, Schäfer had been back and forth with the water a few times, and Scratch had begrudgingly agreed to help), and reached for his wrist to find a pulse.

It was weak, for a moment Wilson could have sworn he was dead.

He put his hand over his face, feeling for a breath, "Aw…"

Aumann looked up and his eyes widened, "_Nein!"_

Wilson shook his head and pressed his hands into Rudi's chest, "We have to bring him back around, he's not breathing," He waved his hand up from his throat, and tapped his own chest, showing what he meant to Aumann.

The German nodded, and then gently moved Wilson's hands aside and pumped on his chest himself.

"Don't stop," Wilson said solemnly, and looked up as Schäfer came back into the clearing, with two more helmetfuls of water.

He set one down next to Wilson and the other next to Scratch, and picked up the two others.

But he didn't leave, walking over to Aumann and asking something in a worried tone.

Aumann's reply was terse, through gritted teeth, and Schäfer ducked his head and left again.

It was an hour. The moon that night was slim and not at all helpful, but as soon as they'd built a fire - small, so as not to aggravate anyone's burns - Wilson could tell by his watch that it was nearly one in the morning when Aumann exclaimed, "_Er atmet_!"

Quickly, almost everyone able scrambled over to them, watching anxiously.

In the next minutes, Rudi awoke, mostly because he was losing everything he'd eaten, until there was nothing left, and then he just retched for a while until he finally caught a great, desperate breath and sank back.

Aumann caught him, and sat him up, "Rudi!"

"Aumann?" Rudi murmured, his eyes fluttering open.

"_Ja," _Aumann talked a little more, and then motioned for someone to pass over the water. He got a bit into Rudi, and then talked a bit more and helped him closer to the fire, "_Sit."_

Rudi nodded, and slowly the men backed away from the fire.

There were still two men who couldn't get up. Von Essen was conscious, and watched everything silently with his head propped up on a pair of boots from someone's burnt feet. Weiß hadn't regained consciousness, although he was breathing. By now Wilson was worrying about infection.

"Wilson," He looked up at Captain Winters, whose eyes were darting over the group, "Scratch's gone."

Wilson looked around, "How long?"

Winters shook his head, "It's been a while. But we have to let him go, Wilson. You know why."

Wilson nodded. They could probably be court-martialed for this, "You think he'll find the others?"

"I sure hope so," Winters sighed.

Wilson nodded, "Could you keep Rudi awake? If he falls asleep again so soon it might be bad."

"Sure," Winters plopped down next to Rudi, and started talking. How they would get around the language barrier Wilson didn't know.

He went back to Weiß and Von Essen, and concluded that they were as good as they would be, until help arrived. Schriver and Voss were trying to piece together what was left of their radio to see if they could send for help - none of them had much of an idea where they were.

A long while passed uneventfully, and Wilson reflected that it was better than a bad event.

At three thirty they got the radio put together.

A cheer rose up among the German crew, and Wilson and Winters exchanged solemn looks.

Winters looked at Aumann, who looked from his men to the two Americans.

Finally, he said, "Soon. Go."

Wilson nodded, and Winters grinned broadly.

They stood, and both shook Aumann's good hand firmly, "_Danke, _Aumann," Winters said, "We won't forget. Take care."

Aumann just shook his head, "I don't know what you say."

They laughed together for a minute, and then, after Wilson had given the best instructions he could to take care of each other, the two Americans ran for the woods.

"But you still got caught," Loewe said, after Wilson had finished the story. It certainly didn't have all the glamor it had in his head, he'd never been very good at storytelling.

"Sure," Wilson shrugged, "We did make it a couple more days, though. And we found Corporal Anders," He shook his head, "He'd been hiding in a treewell with a giant gash in his side. The infection was awful. He only lasted a couple hours after we found him."

"I'm sorry," Loewe said softly.

Wilson nodded.

Loewe looked up, "You ever -," He stopped himself.

"Wonder if I could have saved him, if I hadn't stuck around with the Messerschmitt crew," Wilson finished, "Yeah, for a while. But he couldn't be saved." He swallowed the memory - _Lord, that poor boy - _and went on, "But even if I'd have known, I would've had to stay. They needed help. And I'm not a soldier, I'm a medic."

Loewe nodded, "Yeah."

Wilson frowned down at his hands, laying limp in his lap, and then looked up again, "You got a deck of cards?"

Loewe nodded and pulled a box from his pocket, "What happened to yours?"

"A tragic accident," Wilson said dryly, taking the cards in his hands. They danced between his fingers as he shuffled them - he dared say he had nimble fingers for shuffling, being a doctor and all, "I stood up, bumped the table, and they all went flying into the ash bucket," He nodded towards the bucket next to the stove in the center of the room.

"Ouch," Loewe watched the cards, "Do you often change the subject when it gets like that?"

Wilson sighed, "I can't say I've had many conversations like that."

"Oh," Loewe was quiet for a long minute after that, and then he nodded slowly.

Wilson was glad he didn't say anything more, "If you haven't got any other place to be, I'll play you cards."

With a half-hearted grin, Loewe said, "Can't think of any pressing engagements."

Wilson smiled at him, and dealt the cards.


	5. The Aftereffects of Disaster

**I forgot to mention, I don't own these guys. I wish I did, because I would fix all of the continuity flaws. **

**Also, why aren't there any fics about Minsk? There's plenty with Wilson, and he got less than 25 seconds of screen time (... I counted). Minsk got a whole episode. What's up with that?**

"Do I even ask?" Wilson stared at the mess before him.

Carter, who looked like he'd lost a fight with a blackberry bush, turned bright red underneath all of the bloody scrapes. Newkirk's eyes were anywhere but Wilson's face, although occasionally they darted over when he scratched the ugly welts that spread up and down his neck, face, and, from his uncomfortable shifting, his torso too. LeBeau had apparently done something to his back, because he was sitting hunched over next to Newkirk, looking more than a little bit like Quasimodo. Kinch was standing there, soaked to his waist and missing his shoes, looking a little uncertain as to what to say, and Colonel Hogan didn't react at all. Colonel Hogan was unconscious.

After the first few minutes of deafening silence, Wilson sighed, "All right. Are there any life-threatening injuries? How hard was the Colonel hit?"

"Not that hard," Kinch said.

Carter nodded, "Yeah. That lady was mad, but I don't think she was very strong."

"Oui, she must have been at least eighty-five," LeBeau agreed, "And not that big."

"Still bigger than you," Newkirk snorted.

LeBeau looked about ready to murder, but Wilson held up his hands, "Hey! You guys are on the same side, remember?"

"As soon as the war is over, Anglais," LeBeau muttered darkly.

"Okay," Wilson said, "Now, umm... okay, who's up first?"

Thankfully, LeBeau and Newkirk had agreed to put their differences aside long enough for Newkirk to say, "You should probably get Louis' back before it sticks that way. It's almost as bad as his face."

"Yours isn't looking so good either," LeBeau snapped back as Wilson moved over to him, "How do you like poison iy for a hat?"

"Better than _I_ like a fur coat made of feral cats - and live ones, too!" Carter but in, intent on getting in his own two bits of complaining. "Boy, I probably have tetanus!"

"Tetanus is from metal,"Wilson said, steadily growing more and more alarmed.

"He wouldn't know that," Newkirk snarked, "There's not enough room in his head what with all of that ruddy pork broth!"

"It tasted good! Being a POW makes you desperate, you know!"

"Despite being fed the best of French cooking every night?"

"Well, if he has to eat your cooking, then I think I just might side with him!"

"Alright!" Kinch stepped forward, swayed a bit, and held up his hands, "There's no reason to argue. We got the delivery. We're all back alive, even if we've sustained various degrees of damage and... I don't remember what happened to my shoes. Have any of you really faulted the other?"

"Yes!" All three chorused at once.

Kinch sighed, "I mean recently. On this mission."

They exchanged glances.

"I guess not," Carter admitted softly. While Newkirk and LeBeau were too stubborn to say it out loud, they reluctantly nodded - just barely.

Wilson sighed in relief, "Excellent. That means you guys can help me bend LeBeau back into shape."

"What?" LeBeau exclaimed.

"It doesn't seem like anything's broken. If I'm guessing, you were just crouched in this position for some time?"

"Oui."

"Right. So just -," Wilson pushed LeBeau back onto the cot, inciting a squawk of pain from the Frenchman, "You just need to stretch a bit. You're fine."

"I feel like if I am in pain, then I am not fine. I thought you were a doctor?"

"Never officially. That's why I'm in a POW camp instead of Red Cross protection."

"Blimey, he's not even a real doctor!" Newkirk exclaimed indignantly, "How do we know you're not a complete fraud?"

Wilson raised an eyebrow and glanced back at Kinch, "Did he get hit on the head too?"

Kinch cocked his head to the side in thought, "I don't think so..."

"Huh," Wilson frowned, "Didn't realize poison ivy affected the mind..." He shook himself out of his thoughts and moved towards the rickety cupboard against one wall, "Here Newkirk," He tossed a small metal container to the Englishman, "Just put a little on the worst spots. I haven't got enough for all of it."

"Uh-huh," Newkirk stood up and started for the doorway.

"Where're you going?" Wilson asked.

Newkirk turned bright red, "Well, the poison icy, see, it, umm... spreads, you know, and..."

"Gracious!" Wilson cried, "Just - just go."

Newkirk nodded, ducking his head, and got out of there as quick as he could.

"Mmm -?" They all looked at Colonel Hogan as he attempted to push himself up on one elbow, "What - Wilson!" His eyes widened with alarm, "What are you doing here? Where's - Ingrid?" He looked around, "Oh... oh - oh!" He sat up quickly, "How long have I been out?"

Wilson stared at him.

"Umm, since nine. Sir," Newkirk glanced at his watch, "Five hours."

"I thought the short one was mine!" LeBeau exclaimed.

"Clearly not," Kinch said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Wilson sighed and shook his head, "Carter, you're... probably not up-to-date on your rabies shots, are you?" He asked.

Carter shook his head somberly.

"Alright," Wilson sighed, "Well, all we can do is hope for the best in that department."

"I'm gonna get rabies?" Carter squeaked.

"Relax, it's unlikely." Wilson felt every second of his thirty-eight-years and about five decades more. He pulled a bottle and a towel from the cupboard, and sat down next to Carter, "Please tell me the cuts didn't spread, too?" He poured some of the stuff onto the towel.

Carter shook his head, blushing again, "Just my face and hands."

"Alright, then, here," Wilson handed him the towel, "Just dab that on your cuts. Gently."

With that done, he turned to Colonel Hogan, "Do you have any injuries that an ice pack won't help?"

"My pride," Hogan said softly.

"Sounds like you'll have to take that up with Ingrid," Wilson sighed, "I've got an ice pack for you. Kinch?" He glanced over at the only man who hadn't yet confessed something disturbing and awful, "I guess as long as you haven't caught pneumonia, I don't have to worry about you."

Kinch nodded and looked down at himself, "I suppose so."

"Right." Wilson looked around and surveyed his handiwork. They still looked miserable, but he could say with reasonable certainty that there weren't any infections, concussions, illnesses, or diseases, "That being said, all of you are hereby released and subsequently kicked out of the infirmary. Colonel, I'll get you that ice pack and some aspirin," He followed Colonel Hogan, who took up the end in the piteous line that made their way up the ladder to Barracks 2.

He got Hogan the aspirin and the ice pack, and went back down, intent on dropping into his bunk back in Hut 8 and passing out for the next - he glanced at his watch. Three hours. Glorious.

He heard the tell-tale sounds of tinkering from the radio, and glanced over at Kinch, who had gotten into a dry uniform and was now fiddling with a radio or something of the like, stripped to pieces, "You should be asleep."

Kinch nodded, "Baker's going to be down in a bit. I just want to fix this thing before I hit the hay."

"Mm." Wilson said, "Okay, then. Don't be up too late, though. Doctor's orders."

"You sound more like my mother," Kinch smirked, and Wilson nodded, yawned, and started to make his way, "Hey, Wilson, just a sec."

Wilson looked up.

"You want to hear what happened tonight? I figure you probably deserve to -,"

"No!" Wilson exclaimed, "No. I don't ever want to hear a single word about tonight."

And he turned and walked away down the tunnels.


	6. Night Watch

Kinch frowned at the cards. Klondike was one of those games that was hard to play, because it was possible to deal an impossible round.

This seemed to be one of those rounds, and, much to his chagrin, so had all the others. He wished he could remember the rules for another version of Solitaire, knew he'd played plenty others plenty of times before, but for the life of him he couldn't recall a one.

So he played Klondike. If only he had someone to play Gin or something with, and usually there was someone who would sit up with him, but Olsen was outside the wire again and Broughton was sleeping off a nasty cold. Sometimes Smitty would join him, but tonight was not one of those nights.

Kinch didn't really mind, though. It was a nice kind of solitude, the silence, and he felt a little bit priviledged to own this piece of the night.

He scooped up the cards, glancing at his watch as he did so. Twenty minutes until the guys were due back. He dealt another game.

He was partway through that when he heard the noise from behind him, and twisted around to see.

On the bottom bunk was Private Joseph. He wasn't the youngest boy in camp, that was one of the guards, but he was vey near it. And he was shaking, brow furrowed in a tight frown, fingers twitching. Every so often he gasped slightly and tensed, seeming to try and burrow deeper into the thin straw-filled mattress.

Kinch carefully reached out and touched his shoulder, "Joe?"

He didn't respond except for the small hitch of breath. Kinch nudged again, "Joe."

This time he woke up, eyes flying wide open as he pulled in a breath, and his mouth stayed open, frozen in shock for a second. Then he blinked and glanced up at Kinch, "Oh."

"You okay?" Kinch raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," His shoulders sank as he seemed to process the statement himself, "Yeah. Thanks."

Kinch nodded, and was about to ask if he could get to sleep again okay, but already the exhaustion caught up with the kid and his eyes drifted shut.

He sighed, and reached out to properly tug the bunched-up blanket into place covering his sock feet and slim shoulders, and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning back to his card game.


	7. Cottage Pie

The very youngest guard at Stalag 13 was only 15 (and a half) and had hardly three inches over LeBeau. And even the guard's rations weren't much, so he was a bit skinny, and his overcoat (which most of the time he wore unbuttoned, unless there was visiting brass or it was _really _cold) flapped a little aimlessly behind him.

Klink, upon his arrival, had taken one look at him and set him to kitchen duty, since he really didn't offer much in the way of… anything. What was he supposed to do with a _kid?_

Of course, the way Klink's luck went, peeling potatoes was the one place _Grenadier _Augustin Hertz would get into trouble. Because anyone who stood between _Caporal _Louis LeBeau and the pantry was in for it.

It began on his third day in camp, when the Frenchman abruptly fell through the window of the mess kitchen.

LeBeau's initial panic at the racket he'd caused on his way to the floor was only heightened by the yelp and _clang _of metal from somewhere else in the room, and he scrambled to his feet.

He found himself face-to-face with Hertz clutching his bloody left hand, and in between them a monstrous pile of potato peelings.

"Uhhh, hello," LeBeau said at length, "You seem to have cut your hand."

Hertz pulled in a soft gasp and glanced down at it and paled further, but then he glared up at LeBeau, "Well, if you hadn't come crashing in - you're not even supposed to be here! What are you doing?"

"I was coming for some spices and vegetables and things," LeBeau said, tentatively stepping around the table, "But it appears that that has changed. Wait a minute," He glanced up, "You speak French?"

Hertz turned bright red, "Sure. My friend's French. What're you doing?" He pulled back as LeBeau reached for his hand

"I'm looking at your hand."

"Why? Just get your stuff and get out before you're caught."

"You are still a boy, and I wouldn't feel very good about myself if I left a wounded boy - and it's my fault you're hurt, too," LeBeau grabbed a rag and gently cleaned off the blood, and then glanced up suddenly, "What?"

Hertz just looked at him curiously.

"You said for me to just get my stuff and get out," LeBeau prompted, "You mean you would not turn me in?"

Hertz shrugged, "The prisoners' rations aren't very good, even with your Red Cross packages and whatnot. Most of it goes to the officers anyways, and they get more than enough."

LeBeau looked back down at the wound, "It's deep. Where is the knife?" He looked around and his eyes widened at the size of the knife, "You use that to peel potatoes?"

"Aren't I s'posed to?"

"_Non!" _LeBeau exclaimed, "You use a paring knife. Look, go to the infirmary, tell them you cut your hand - do not mention me, please?" Hertz nodded, "_Oui. _And tomorrow I come back and show you how to use a paring knife."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Hertz asked.

LeBeau snorted, "You have been fraternizing with the enemy for the past five minutes. If you weren't so young, Klink would send you to Stalingrad faster than you could say potato peel," Assured that Hertz had his wound under control, he began to move around the room, plucking a few select things from the shelves. A clove of garlic, two tomatoes, a chunk of cheese, and other such things.

Hertz just watched him, and asked, "What're you gonna make?"

LeBeau frowned, "Cottage pie. _Pah_. Usually I wouldn't make something so unsophisticated, but it is Newkirk's birthday tomorrow, so I make an exception."

"I didn't realize there was garlic in Cottage pie."

He shrugged, "_Non_, but there is in this one."

"Oh."

"Hey," LeBeau grinned at him crookedly, walking back to the window, "As an apology for causing you to cut your hand, I will try to save some leftovers for you." If Schultz didn't eat the whole thing.

Hertz' eyes fairly lit up, but then he ducked his head and nodded, "_Danke_."

"Sure," LeBeau grabbed the bottom windowsill and hoisted himself up and out.

**Cottage Pie is pretty much the same as Shepherd's Pie, but with lamb instead of beef or vice-versa, I don't actually remember.**


	8. Nights Like These

Wilson wouldn't admit it, but he didn't mind nights like these.

In the bed closest to the infirmary door, Carter was curled up into a tight ball, his breaths wheezing, but even. Kinch, in the next bed over, was splayed on his back, book laying open on his chest. Hugh, the poor kid, had had the flu for the better part of the past week, and now he was a mess of snot and sweat. Rosen, the Germans' medic, was also down with the bug, and had put up quite a fuss at having to go to the infirmary as a _patient_, but he, too was sleeping soundly now, as was Theiss, the other sick guard, who was a big enough guy his feet were hanging off the edge of the bed, draped with another blanket. Loewe, who had been helping Wilson in the infirmary, had tried his utmost to stay awake, but he, too, was asleep, head laying in his folded arms, a card game scattered on the table in front of him.

Wilson sat in his chair, feet braced against the cupboards in front of him. He pushed off of the cupboard, until his chair hit the wall behind him with a soft _thuck_, and then he moved his foot to hook underneath the cupboard and pull himself forward until the front legs _tap_ped against the floor. And then he pushed back against the floor again.

_Thuck. Tap. Thuck. Tap._

Hugh started coughing suddenly, and Wilson quickly stood up and strode over, propping the kid up until his throat finally cleared, and then he picked up the glass of water from the nearby table and pressed it to his lips.

His shaking fingers closed around it and he half-drained the glass before sinking back and murmuring, "'anks."

"Sleep tight, kid." Wilson set the glass down and eased Hugh back to the bed.

He was asleep again in minutes, and Wilson tucked the blanket back around him and went back to his chair.

_Thuck. Tap. Thuck. Tap. Thuck. Tap._

He got up to check on Kinch's fever, and fixed the blanket that Theiss had kicked off, and went back to his seat.

_Thuck. Tap. Thuck. Tap._

It was closing on midnight, when he checked his watch by the light filtering in the slats in the window, but it was far from quiet. Outside, he could hear the crunch of a guard's boots as he walked his post, and occasionally one of the dogs yelped or barked or woofed or howled or made some other doggish noise.

Inside the infirmary -_ his_ infirmary, he considered - there was the discordant wheezes of all of his patients, and the rhythmic tapping of his chair, and the cracking of the fire burning low in the stove. Carter sneezed, and then sniffled a bit and curled up tighter, and his breath evened again.

_Thuck. Tap. Thuck. Tap._

Wilson didn't mind nights like these.


	9. Breath

Breathe… couldn't breathe… God, why couldn't he breathe?! Carter could feel his fingers scrabbling at the cord around his neck but _God, I can't breathe, help, I can't breathe._

Force your eyes open, can't see anything anyhow, except for dark black and purple and blue spots that looked like drops in a pool of ink. Couldn't breathe - strangling - couldn't breathe and his hands were slipping, his knees had already given out… help!

Help. _Andrew Carter. Andrew Carter needs help. He can't breathe._ His eyes were tearing up and the tightness around his throat was claustrophobic, and he couldn't -

Gunshot.

The cord disappeared and Carter collapsed. Breath. Breath. Breath.

"Andrew!" Someone grabbed him around the shoulders, "Andrew, are you breathing?"

He nodded, and Kinch hauled him to his feet, and tilted his chin up, "Andrew?"

"K-kinch," He sighed, "H-hhh-hi."

Kinch smiled, "Hey. We got to get back to camp, Fritz' friends will be here soon," He started to tug Carter away, and he almost tripped over the still form laying at their feet.

Carter nodded, and then grabbed Kinch's arm. And then grabbed him in a tight hug. T_hank God for Kinch, and Newkirk, and Louis and Colonel Hogan_… "Thanks, Kinch," He muttered into the bigger man's shoulder.

Kinch gave him a half-second's hug back, and then pulled away and slid an arm around Carter, "You're welcome, buddy. Come on, catch your breath when we get back. Come on."


End file.
